


We'll Make Them Remember Our History (Or How We'd Like It To Be Told)

by glittermarxism



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aromantic Courfeyac, Asexual Enjolras, F/F, High School AU, M/M, Mentally Ill Characters, Modern AU, Multi, Nonbinary Enjolras, Other, Trans Courfeyac, agender jehan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6017203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittermarxism/pseuds/glittermarxism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is perfectly content not knowing who he is or what he wants out of life, but no one else is. It's his senior year of high school, and he wants to just forget about the upcoming burden of college. </p><p>Enjolras is an anxious wreck, per usual, but as he gets more and more comfortable with his group of friends he starts noticing that his anxieties are shifting from school related paranoia to more intimate insecurities. </p><p>Jehan and Combeferre are bookish, romantic nerds who do not want to own up to how totally infatuated they are with one another. </p><p>Oh, also, this misfit group of mentally ill, LGBT teens are going to save the world. At least according to the blonde in red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grantaire (Introduction)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction, so I'm not exactly sure the direction I'm gonna have this take. Your guess will be as good as mine! Let's hope it's alright, and I'll appreciate any and all kudos, bookmarks, and comments <3 
> 
> (Title is from "Those Anarcho Punks are Mysterious" by Against Me! because that is such an Enjolras song)

Grantaire was someone who could be classified as a man of many hats. His talents and knowledge were vast and extensive, but there was still nothing he felt he had truly mastered and he lacked any true passion. This was not something he particularly minded, though. At age 17, it wasn’t too hard to not care about whether it would be his painting or his historical fascinations or his performance skills that would turn into a career. In fact, he really despised that notion in general. That he had to pick a passion and channel it just so he could be another cog in the bourgeois, capitalist machine. 

It wasn’t even that Grantaire lacked passion entirely, though he did try and feign it to a certain extent. His misanthropic persona was only half true, the cynicism and skepticism being the true halves. The false half was the anger or apathy that is generally distinguishes misanthropy from cynicism. Grantaire wasn’t an idealist, and he didn’t throw his heart and soul into everything he did. His heart and his soul were as finicky as he was in his skills, dancing around aimlessly until something caught their interests. 

Intensity was not something the cynic was unfamiliar with, the way that one week he could ache over the works of Robespierre and then the next be spouting trivia about Picasso’s work as if cubism were his one true calling. This intense ache and feeling could also be seen in Grantaire’s personal life. Sometimes he’d be cold and distant, only socializing for surface level entertainment or tangible gain. He had a way with words, and despite his unpleasant appearance was generally part of the “in” crowd. But, on many occasions, he would find himself longing to go on unfathomable tangents about the way his friend Jehan’s eyes sparkled when they got excited, or how Eponine’s integrity made him feel as though he had something to stick around for. 

When not drunk or bumming a cigarette, and when not so down on himself that the world became an irritable hue of grey, Grantaire was a lively person. He loved freely and with little remorse, he was clever beyond all belief, he was humorous and could draw in a crowd, and he was fantastic at whatever skill he’d chosen to care about at that point in time. He could mold himself into the person that pleased others, picking and choosing which parts of himself fit best with the current situation. 

But, most of the time, he was not in a completely stable frame of mind. These were the times where he waxed melancholic, where he couldn’t stay focused on much of anything in school, when he faded away from his friends, when he overindulged, when a stubborn belligerence would take him over. That was the Grantaire that most commonly existed, even if this Grantaire was less favorable. 

His teachers, parents, and friends all tell him he is smart. That he is throwing his life away whenever he lets the burn of nicotine in through his mouth. That he should be happier, or at least reach out when he is not. That he should embrace his vulnerability instead of living with a crippling fear of death and loss. But, he didn’t. Grantaire preferred cynicism’s comforting embrace over the ambiguities of most else. 

Still, it wasn’t as if he didn’t wish he could hold onto passion. To comfortably love and care and ignore all doubt was his true desire. It was faint, though. Like how when he was 8 he wanted to go to space, despite obviously having none of the needed skill or qualifications to be an astronaut-- let alone one that would be space bound. Passion was to 17 year old Grantaire what space travel was to 8 year old Grantaire. Nice in theory, and nice from a distance. In actuality? Unattainable and likely a poor plan. 

 

The closest glimpse to pure passion existed in Grantaire’s life were the people he surrounded himself with. 

Jehan Prouvaire, an agender sophomore with long, auburn hair that they would always wear in a loose ponytail. Designated male at birth, the young poet took a lot of passion in toying with idealized gender roles in their presentation. They kept the stubble of their facial hair and the prominence of their sideburns, but they also always adorned their hair with a flower crown or a bow. They dressed eccentrically, generally in either neons or pastels. Bulky sweaters would be layered over peter pan collar blouses and paired with flowing skirts. Jehan didn’t shave their legs, but preferred sandal oxfords and lace socks. While most teenagers would dream of perfecting the destruction of constricting gender roles, Jehan was the embodiment of this. In a highly personal way, Jehan’s existence simply abolished any notion that an onlooker had any right to try and gender Jehan. 

Jehan was not just unique for their confidence and frankly adorable choice of dress, but they were also one of the most emotional and eloquent people Grantaire knew. They adored romanticism and poetry, having a good hold of their feelings and an amazing way with words. There was no one more full of love than Jehan. Love for their friends, love for the world, love for every flower in their garden, love for the cactus Grantaire kept on his desk, love for themself, and love for things they did not yet know yet. It was heartwarming and enviable, this softness. To be able to laugh and cry in the same way, hard and freely. 

Combeferre was also soft, though not to the same extent as Jehan. He was a junior, as were most of Grantaire’s friends, and he was the most intelligent person Grantaire knew. Although every one of his friends were dorks with all honors classes, Combeferre had this careful logic to him. If Jehan were to embody the Romantic Period, Combeferre would likely be the Enlightenment. Though gentle and compassionate, reason rule in the young, black man’s life. Where Jehan relied on clothes to convey their identity, there wasn’t much of a goal to Combeferre’s fashion besides walking the line between very comfortable and too professional for a high school setting. Lots of button ups, vests, and sweaters, mostly. Paired with his rectangular glasses, there was a vague extent to which he looked like a stereotypical nerd. Of course he wasn’t, though, he was far more unique than that. 

The way to peer into Combeferre’s soul was through the books he read. Though fun to be around, Combeferre was not someone who engaged in media strictly for pleasure. Everything he read was philosophical or educational in some other profound way. A deep thinker, and the sort of person who you’d want to work with you on a group project or even run the country, Combeferre was also quite a confident individual. It came in bursts, though. He was a bit awkward, but participated frequently and enthusiastically in class. He’d never volunteer to speak in public, but when he did he would likely move someone to tears. Ideally, if you were lucky, you wouldn’t have to analyze Combeferre. Instead, you could talk to him, and he would analyze you. An amazing conversationalist, there was no greater pleasure in the world than listening to Combeferre wax philosophical (which he did quite often). His calm, soft nature was engaging beyond belief. 

However, the most engaging of Grantaire’s friends would likely have to be Courfeyac. A fun-loving trans kid with prominent dimples, a face full of freckles, and curly black hair. He was extraverted in nature, combining Jehan’s flamboyancy with Combeferre’s intellect and confidence. He wasn’t the best with words, but he didn’t need to be. He was good at making others feel included, a listener who always knew just what questions to ask. He was fun, and he liked spontaneity. Though disinterested in romantic pursuits, Courfeyac was very affectionate. He was the type to snuggle with his best friends and sleep around, always joking about being in love with a dramaticism that could rival Jehan’s sappiest poetry, but never meaning it.

Courfeyac was quite serious, though. Only a junior, he was engulfed in his studies of law. His charisma would benefit him in such a career, though the daunting nature often seemed contradictory to Courfeyac’s seemingly light hearted nature. It truly wasn’t, though. Just a reality of Courfeyac’s dedication and intricacies. 

Grantaire could wax sentimental for hours, really, about these companions of his. Oh, how he adored them so!

Joly was intelligent and compassionate, his heart big and his smile illuminating. 

Bousset was hilarious, and the type of person you’d want to have banter with for hours. 

Muschietta was gorgeous, both in physical beauty and at heart. Her presence was comforting, to say the least of her unfathomable merit. 

Eponine was tough, creative, and supportive. Her and Grantaire had been friends for so long that he wasn’t sure if he could even articulate a proper reason as to why he loved her. He just did, so much. She was his rock, his hope. 

Feuilly was doing the (ambiguously existent) Lord’s work, empathetic but practical. Always busy with volunteer work, but always chipper and engaged. Whether it was Marx or Planned Parenthood, Feuilly was very actively thinking about the world and working to amend what about it was unfair. 

Bahorel was one after Grantaire’s own heart. A jokester who would often box with R, Grantaire found him to be fantastic company. 

Marius was naive, but kind. If nothing else he was sweet, but he was dedicated to school and this falsified idea of bringing world peace. Committed was the best word to describe Marius. Loyal, like a puppy. Yes, Marius was very much like a puppy. Between his cuteness, his wide eyes, and his innocence-- it was all resemblant of a baby dog. 

Cossette was just as pure as Marius, if not more so, but also as tough as Eponine. She had short, golden curls and a bright smile. Her way of dress implied weakness, but her dexterity and wit implied strength and self sufficiency. Grantaire admired her very much, and not just because she worked at the local Cafe and had his usual order memorized. 

Still, if only to Grantaire’s own disdain, there was one individual in this bizarre group that caused him the most grief due to copious levels of affection

It was the self proclaimed, and self denounced, leader of their nonexistent revolution-- Enjolras. 

16 years old, this kid already looked like an adult. His features were sharp, with cutting cheekbones and a squared jawline. His glare was intense, and his physique lean yet cut in a way that just seemed truly unfair. This was mostly due to his active participation in Color Guard, but still. No teenager should be allowed to have arms that nice, damn it all. 

He had pale skin and long, golden curls that tumbled down his back. Usually, but not always, they were held up in a loose ponytail. 

However, it was not just the godly appearance of Enjolras that intrigued Grantaire (Though, Grantaire could talk for hours about how nice Enjolras looks in any given outfit), but also his passion. Though the goals were fruitless and frankly silly at times, Grantaire felt whole as he listened to Enjolras speak with the type of passion R had spent so much time yearning for. 

Enjolras was fire, intense and terrible and beautiful. He was the roar of an oncoming wave, and Grantaire was but a grain of sand. 

Where Grantaire was a senior and clueless about his future, Enjolras was a junior with everything figured out. Some days, Grantaire was pretty sure the feelings were closer to envy than romantic. 

Frankly, as far as Grantaire could care, these feelings were not romantic. They surely were, but what a bother it would be to deal with such a thing. To think of the agony and self loathing that the depressed cynic would drown in if he dared confess to anyone, himself included, that Enjolras was someone he most definitely had a crush on! How frightful!

So, for the time being, Grantaire focused on what was really important. The given interest of the day, his friends, what he could do to avoid the harsh realities of the world, and avoiding any discussions about his future.


	2. Enjolras (Introduction)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is not cis, not straight, and not neurotypical. 
> 
> Yet, he still feels "too privileged" to talk about any of these things. 
> 
> (Or he just doesn't want to)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mental illness, gender dysphoria, self doubt/ridicule, self diagnosing
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos!! They mean a lot, and I hope to hear more from you as I continue writing <3

Enjolras was a mess. 

No, really. 

Surely on the outside he could muster some sort of appearance of control, act as if he was confident and composed and not falling apart at the seams. Maybe it would shock some that most every night Enjolras had some form of an anxious breakdown. Maybe it wouldn’t. He didn’t really care, his mental health issues were not going to be a part of him for others to analyze and get involved with.

They were just his own, unfortunate truth. 

His parents were supportive, though relatively distant. He’d grown up with a multitude of privileges, between his eurocentrically ideal appearance, his assigned gender, and the influx of wealth he had at his disposal. He tries to do what he can to make up for this, which is why he spends most of whatever allowance he makes on charitable organizations, but a lot of his divergence is more personal and intricate than trying to step outside of a given privilege.

Take his gender, for instance. He couldn’t tell you for the life of him what it was, but it wasn’t male and it sure as hell wasn’t female. It often felt like nothing, or a twinge masculine, but it mostly just felt messy and confusing and shameful. He knew that was unfair, for he would never scorn anyone else for struggling with who they were. But, himself? It felt tedious and he just wanted an answer. To be able to say, “Hello, I’m Enjolras, and I am [Trans, nonbinary, agender, genderfluid, something]” was all he wanted. Instead, due to a pure lack of self knowledge, he just didn’t discuss his identity unless he had to. 

This was honestly his approach to most things, really. He didn’t talk very much about being demiromantic or asexual, just let those things exist around him. If a conversation veered towards the aromantic or asexual communities, he wouldn’t hide his identities, he just didn’t see much value in waving them around either. He was fighting for those who were truly struggling. He was fine, he was safe, he was okay. He didn’t need to get worked up about his own struggles. 

In fact, it was really only his mental health that he talked about. This was only as of late, as he was trying to self diagnose himself with the help of Combeferre. Ingrained with a disdain for the professional psychological field, he much preferred the knowledge of his best friend. This was maybe foolish of him, but Combeferre truly did know his stuff and he didn’t like the idea of paying money to have a stranger psychoanalyze him. 

Enjolras and Combeferre could really only come up with two things in conclusion to the reality of the blonde’s mind. 

Firstly, he was an anxious mess. If nothing else, he had an anxiety disorder. It was likely generalized, though they weren’t sure. There weren’t really specific triggers, so that seemed the most likely. 

Secondly, he was antsy and filled with an intense, crippling energy. Combeferre wasn’t sure whether to rope that in as part of Enjolras’s anxiety, or to leave it by its lonesome and classify it as mania. Either way, Enjolras was prone to bursts of motivation that he couldn’t stop, feelings of invincibility, delusions of grandeur, and biting off much more than he could chew. He was also prone to feeling empty if he didn't give into the energy, and overwhelmed if he did. 

Despite Enjolras’s desperate longing for it, Combeferre didn’t feel comfortable diagnosing his friend. Not because he believed a doctorate was the only way to understand psychology, but because he didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. 

This, however, only served as fuel for Enjolras’s burning anxiety and energy. Every night he’d read articles on various disorders and annotate them for similar behaviors, he’d take quizzes trying to diagnose himself, and he generally just wouldn’t leave it be. 

He wished he could. He wished he could just step back and accept that all that could be known for now was that he was anxious, energetic, and intense. But, it felt unfair. It felt empty, and Enjolras didn’t like it. 

Aside from his talks with Combeferre, and occasionally Courfeyac or Feuilly, Enjolras kept these feelings bottled up and locked away from onlookers. He really didn’t want the attention. He liked being the vehicle for passion and change, not its spotlight. He didn’t want anyone’s eyes on him or his problems, he just wanted his voice to make people care about humanity as a whole. 

Maybe this was misguided, but he was 16 and he wasn’t ready to focus too much on himself. It made him feel scared, sad, and ill. When he analyzed his own feelings too much, he lost it. 

This was a big part of why he focused on school and empathetic pursuits over personal ones. He could never do something just to make himself feel good. 

Which was why his career aspirations were broader, and generally involved some form of social work. A lawyer, a politician, or a history teacher were the three ways he’d divided his career goals. He’d focus on whichever one he needed to, and had no overarching preference for any of the three. He’d be good at all of them, and he could make a difference in all of them. 

That was all that really mattered.


	3. The (Grumpy) Light Of My Day!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has one block with Enjolras and is too excited about it. That's it, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the progress is so slow!!! I'm gonna start developing background characters/relationships but for the sake of getting past introductions, I'm trying to just sort of move into any sort of action. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!!!

Grantaire only saw Enjolras during Study Hall and Lunch. 

The two didn’t really interact very much, despite sitting together on both of these occassions. Lunch was loud, and Grantaire loathed loud. He was quiet in the cafeteria, and Enjolras often was too. Grantaire would put in his earbuds and look out a nearby window, too distant from the chatter of his friends while Enjolras would try and pull out a book or look off into the distance. It was likely creepy to notice, but these attempts never lasted long. 

Grantaire could only imagine what it was like to exist inside of Enjolras’s mind. It seemed very chaotic, being that righteous all the time. Surely, even for someone as superhuman as he, life must be hard at times. Not like Grantaire was ever going to know that, given their track record of emotional intimacy (read: nonexistent). 

In their preference of silence, Grantaire could almost pretend the two of them were connected. Sometimes their eyes would meet while everyone else was chatting away, and Grantaire would smile. Enjolras wasn’t the “smiling back” type, at least never for Grantaire, but he was sure there was a ghost of something there. 

Study Hall was better noise wise, and the first day of it had been hilarious. Or at least interesting. 

Grantaire, Jehan, Eponine, and Enjolras had all ended up in the same B day, 2nd block, Study Hall. 

Flocking together like angry queers tend to in the wild, the four had sat together right from the beginning. The sight of the ever studious, “fill my schedule with as many AP and social science courses as I can” Enjolras was a very weird sight in a block dedicated to laziness. As a senior, Grantaire’s presence made sense. As a beacon of apathy, Eponine’s presence made sense. As...Jehan, Jehan's presence made sense. Enjolras was an enigma. 

Obviously he was aware of this, because the first words he uttered were not a greeting, but a complaint:

“I can’t believe my parents made me do this. I can’t believe that they don’t trust me to handle my mental health, and think that I can’t tell when I’ve pushed myself too far! This is going to be Hell. Doing nothing is hell. My hands are already shaking a bit, fuck this. I hate it.” Enjolras’s hands threaded through his golden locks, and he hunched over on the table. 

“Enjolras, just do homework. Or read. You don’t have to be a lazy piece of shit.” Eponine snorted, “This can be just as vigorous as a class if you need it to be, but, also, like, cut yourself some slack. Parents can suck, case in point being mine, but I think yours were kinda on the nose.”

“I mean, sure, fine, but this will look awful to colleges! Also, it is not their job to assess my mental health, especially not like this! A study hall in my Junior year-- ah, uh,” Enjolras pressed his lips together when he realized his error.

“You’re not offending me, I’m against College as institution. You’re likely offending our darling Jehan, a wee sophomore who has also decided to partake in a study hall! Is this genius below college approval?” Eponine deadpanned, and Grantaire found she was always better at pushing the blonde’s buttons than he was. Probably because she didn’t care, while Grantaire cared far too much. 

Jehan chuckled gently as their name was mentioned, but shrugged, “I mean, I also am kind of against College. I’ll likely go to an Arts or Liberal College, if any. I want to pursue writing. Maybe live in the mountains, have a cabin with a nice garden, write poetry and philosophy. I am a person of little serious ambition.” They hummed, “Also, I’m kind of with your parents. I think I’m gonna need this to keep my anxiety from going haywire, and my grades are good enough that a college will accept me. And you, likely.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, “Yes, I am sure Harvard will still let you be a Lawyer/Politician/History Teacher if you have a single, A/B study hall. What do you have opposite of this?”

“Law.”

“Okay, like, yeah, no, literally shut the fuck up. You’re fine,”

Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows together, blue eyes packing a terrible punch, “....Thanks,” He uttered, entirely emotionless. Well, except for anger. There was always anger, and sometimes Grantaire just liked to comfort himself with the idea of it actually being Enjolras’s strange attempt at indifference. 

Grantaire cracked his knuckles, and beamed, having mastered the art of acting as though Enjolras’s slight disapproval was not a constant ache in his chest that worsened with every interaction they had. It was a rather pitiful truth, anyhow, and one he was comfortable hiding.

“Okay, anyway, I brought Uno. Who’s in?”

Enjolras looked at him with pure disbelief, “Why do you have Uno?” 

“Apollo, darling, it’s /study hall./”

Enjolras just glared at him, maintaining eye contact as he pulled a book out of his bag. The eye contact was only broken as his eyes met the beige pages.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows in disbelief, looking over at Eponine, who was trying to hold back snickers, “Okay, point taken. Eponine? Jehan?” 

Eponine beamed, “Fuck yes, love Uno.”

Jehan nodded, “Yeah, sure! Are you good dealing, or do you want help?”

“I’m good, my flower. Your altruism is appreciated nonetheless.” 

“Such a high honor, I do not foresee ever living up to such a praise again,” Jehan chided. 

And thus was the first Study Hall-- Enjolras reading, while everyone else had a nice time. It was very predictable, truly. Though, even weeks later, Grantaire still could find himself on cloud nine when he relived what Enjolras had said to him at the end of that block together. 

Grantaire, chastising as always, had inquired, “Why read over things you actually know when you could, God forbid, have a half decent time?”

“It’s /study/ hall, darling.”


	4. Cat Pajamas? What Better to Destroy Cat-pitalism In!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the les amis are chillin at courfeyac's, enjolras is a weird bundle of intensity, grantaire is gay. that's basically it lmao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIVE !!!! i stopped vibing w/ this fic for a bit but i'm back at it, kiddos !

“Alright, so we all are aware of the club that I run, yes?”

Enjolras was exactly the type of person to genuinely choose to ask such simple and clearly passive aggressive questions without considering for a moment that it could ever be construed as rude. It was amazing, really. 

The response was generally silence, at least for a few second, because how the Hell would one respond to that? 

Grantaire, leaning against Courfeyac’s bed was the one to take the call to arms, as he generally was when it came to an excuse to berate Enjolras, “Considering the fact that you are talking to all the members of said club, I’m going to wildly jump to the accusation of ‘Yes’” 

“It was rhetorical, R, thanks.” Enjolras huffed, rolling his eyes. It was genuinely hard to take him seriously in his marching band hoodie and cat pajama pants. The best part was that this wasn’t even a sleepover. They were just hanging out at Courfeyac’s, as a group, in the late afternoon. And Enjolras was in fucking  _ pajamas. _

"Yes, okay, because that pause that just happened really set in that notion." 

“ _Any_ how, if we are through with sarcastic commentary--” 

“Oh, do we not have to be? Do we get an option? Your leadership becomes more democratic by the day, mon cheri” 

Enjolras ignored him entirely this time, and frankly Grantaire could respect that, “I think we need to rebrand the club. It’s not getting traction. Our name is too obscure, and our mission statement is too broad.”

Combeferre, who was resting his head in Courfeyac’s lap, looked over at Enjolras and adjusted his glasses, “Yeah, the name was very clever at 1am last summer, but it probably is confusing.”

Grantaire groaned, “No, what, you are not taking away the only good part of this club! It’s a pun, and a very clever pun! Making our name a pun was literally the mandate to get me to join, and I think we all know I’m too valuable to lose.”

“That’s really not true,” Enjolras muttered under his breath, and Grantaire really had to pretend he hadn’t heard it, and that hearing it didn’t sting.

Courfeyac hummed gently in agreement, tapping his fingers gently on Combeferre’s stomach, “Yeah, the name is clever, frankly. I like french puns, also it’s like a sense of community for those who get it, yeah? And when they get it, they know our mission statement. We stand for those in lower ranks, be that in class or privilege. It’s nice.”

Enjolras waved a hand, “Okay, okay, ABC stays. Whatever. Our actually agenda, as well as publicity, could use a mark up, though. Or, we could at least do more than share enraging articles on Skype group chats?”

“I take direct offense to that! Jehan and I also post pictures of animals being cute in the Skype group chat, which I find to be an extremely valiant effort on our part,” Grantaire huffed, placing a hand to his chest. He glanced over at Jehan, who gave him two thumbs up. The response from Grantaire was, of course, the classic finger guns and wink. Jehan Prouvaire was an angel sent from above. 

“They help the cause of my mental stability!” Joly offered, and Grantaire fucking beamed at Enjolras at this.

“Christ, stop doing that with your face. I don’t care, share as many puppies as you want. I’m just saying, if we want to gain any traction in our endeavors, we need to do more for our organization.” Enjolras stated, “Does anyone have any ideas on that front?”

“I could maybe talk to the advisors at some of the places I volunteer and see if they’d partner with our club?” Feuilly offered, “If people recognize a charity or organization’s name, they’ll get a better frame of what our club is doing. Plus, we’d be doing more direct good?”

“That seems, like, really shitty and capitalist,” Grantaire commented. 

“It seems like it’ll work, and also it’s charity.” Enjolras huffed.

“Plus, everything is shitty and capitalist. We have to just do the most good that we can now, and wait for the class war to unfold.” Feuilly responded with an odd calmness. 

“Feuilly, have I ever told you that I am platonically in love with you?” Enjolras turned fully towards Feuilly as he said this.

“Actually yes, at least twice this week.” 

Grantaire hated how envious he was. Like, whatever, it wasn’t like him and Enjolras were even really friends as was. Just in the same friend group. So, whatever. Whatever! This was fine. Enjolras could be platonically in love with everyone but him until the Sun and the Earth finally collided in inevitable solar heat death. It was fine. 

Enjolras’s face seemed to tint pink at this clarification from Feuilly, but he ultimately just shrugged, “Well, then take it as another reminder.”

“Of course. My platonic admirations also extend your way, Enjolras.”

“An honor, truly.”

“Bleh, you guys sound so old fashioned. Like, ‘Oh duchess, may I be permitted to appreciate your veneer?’, ‘Oh yes, quite! How darling, truly!’. Gross.” Grantaire mocked, rolling his eyes.

It was apparently not as funny as he thought it would be, judging by the death glare he got from Enjolras and the confused stare he got from Feuilly. He coughed awkwardly and slumped down against Courfeyac’s bed frame. He took the time then to really appreciate how itchy his friend’s carpet was. My, how interesting. Really great. 

“Grantaire, I’m platonically in love with you!” Joly said gently, rubbing his shoulder. 

R couldn’t help it, at that point he literally groaned. He swatted Joly’s hand away, “Stop, gross, no, don’t say it to  _ me.  _ Not the point,”

Though, of course, it kind of was the point. Insecurity always seemed to take the reigns, as far as Grantaire’s decisons could qualify. 

Bousset beamed, “Yes, me too! Grantaire, platonically marry me!” 

Jehan whined, “No, R, me!” 

Grantaire covered his face, peeking through his fingers just enough to make eye contact with Combeferre. The look he gave was pleading in a way he prayed the guide would understand. 

A saint by all means, he simply glanced over at the group and said, “Stop. We all love each other very much, and it’s disgustingly adorable. I believe Enjolras had a point, though, no?”

Enjolras took a second to realize he was being spoken to, mind occupied with who knows what, “Oh, uh, yes! Our cause. We need to better assist and advocate for it.”

Eponine smirked slightly, leaning against Marius, “And our cause is….?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but smiled fondly. Again, Eponine was much better at knowing how to accurately pick on Enjolras, “Our cause is human rights as a whole, defending the oppressed and marginalized from a corrupt system that seeks to hurt them. Our goal is equality and happiness for the masses, no matter the cost!” 

There was no way to describe how Enjolras glowed when he got passionate. He was a mess, disheveled as always and with blonde locks curling into his face. His eyes were bright, and he looked like an angel. Like the sun, like the god Apollo sent from above to bless the miserable earth with his presence. 

Grantaire could weep!

He looked towards Combeferre, the endearing fire still in his eyes. A smile began to form on his normally stoic face. 

“We’ll do it, of course. I’ll look into the logistics tonight, and I like Feuilly’s idea. But, Enjolras, even if we’re the only members...we’re a lot of people. We can still do good.”

Enjolras’s smile grew into a full, gentle one, “I know. I trust us.”

Grantaire found that funny, because Enjolras really didn’t ever seem to trust in anyone but himself. Still, the softness of his words made Grantaire’s chest ache and he wanted ever so desperately to hold his Not Friend close. It was pathetic. He  just….glowed!

Combeferre smiled back warmly, reaching a hand up to meet Courfeyac’s. The dimpled boy smiled down at Ferre as he did this, before looking over at Enjolras and extending that fond smile to him.

There was certainly something strange about how petty arguing and stubbornness could fade into compassion and hope, but that was just how the ABC rolled. They were a kind, ambitious bunch with red faces and shining eyes and hearts full of love, but minds full of reason. They were all filled to the brim with pure passion. 

Grantaire was quite empty, especially in juxtaposition, and thus liked to watch his friends soar on the high wings of faith. It was glorious, to pretend for a moment that he believed in radicalism and change. 

“Enjolras, when we Skype tonight we can make a list, okay?” Combeferre offered, and no Grantaire didn’t care that the two had private, nightly Skype calls. That was too obscure of a thing to worry himself with. 

Enjolras nodded, and almost seemed to relax, “Sounds good.”

Muschietta seemed to have sensed the lull, and piped up, “Can we watch the Frida Kahlo documentary now?”

“Yes! Yes, yes!” Cried Eponine and Feuilly in tandem.

Grantaire too, a fan of both art and Kahlo specifically, perked up, “Uh, yes, why were we not doing that the whole time? Yes!” 

Enjolras then started laughing, ever so gently and subtly. It was a perfect sound, if one ever existed. 

So, maybe Grantaire wasn't a revolutionary by the common sense of the term. Maybe he didn't want to light buildings on fire, kill a cop, or die in the name of communism, or liberty, or whatever it was exactly that everyone was so damn riled up about. 

But, he absolutely felt something. He felt content watching the documentary, he felt the warmth of Jehan and Joly at either side of him, he felt giddy just watching the pitiful way that Jehan would steal glances at Combeferre, and he felt whole whenever his gaze crossed the path of Enjolras. 

In the way of passion? Grantaire was empty, cynical by all means!

But, in the way of happiness? 

Well, even if the glass was half empty, it was better than nothing at all. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
